Date Night
by Yohohoandabottleofcokezero
Summary: John was nervous. So far this looked like a normal date ... clearly something else must be going on.


**AN:** This was written for challenge 6 of round 1 of tvnetwork2_las over on livejournal. The prompt was "Art".

**Date Night**

John looked up from the newspaper, his eyes wide. "What do you mean we're going on a date?"

Sherlock gave him a stern look, before re-entering the kitchen to fiddle with God knows what. John tried not to ask most of the time. "You were complaining that we do not 'date' enough, so I have done some research and found us an activity I would not be adverse to. We are leaving in 20 minutes."

There were many complaints John could have raised at this point. For starters, when he'd complained about the lack of dating, he hadn't exactly expected to be having one with Sherlock. Alright, so they had been sleeping together on and off – depending of the state of the case they were working on and whether or not John was dating anyone else – since they had moved in together, but John had never really expected idating/i from Sherlock. Besides, just thinking about what Sherlock might think was an appropriate date idea – especially considering the Chinese circus debacle – set John's teeth on edge. But, stronger than all these worries, John could not help but feel a surge of giddiness at the idea of Sherlock doing something for him like that, caring about his feelings enough to make room for him in this part of his life.

By the time they were in the taxi on the way to the O2, the giddiness had been replaced by sheer terror.

It was the fact that it sounded like somewhere he might consider a good date that really made him suspicious. He'd been caught out by the circus, and then there had been the National Portrait Gallery and its bloody resident graffiti expert. Frankly, he'd have been more comfortable if Sherlock had just said they were going to the morgue … or a crime scene … or posing as a couple to draw out an axe murderer. At least then he wouldn't be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Honestly," Sherlock had huffed, when asked about why they were going there, "if you cannot work it out yourself, you're being even more of an idiot than normal." When John had snapped that they weren't all bloody geniuses Sherlock had simply turned his attention to his mobile and spent the rest of the journey texting someone, presumably Lestrade, furiously on his mobile, seemingly deaf to John's insults.

It did not bode well.

He'd found himself more inclined to sulking since meeting Sherlock, something about communicating in a language the resident sociopath would understand. Well that and the fact that Sherlock pulled more powerful emotions out of him than he had felt since pleading to God for his life with a bullet in his shoulder, sand in face and screaming in his ears.

Then they were being dropped off and Sherlock was saying, "I think I am supposed to hold your hand." and leading him into the building – actually inside it and everything.

It was only when he saw the sign at the opening to the exhibition that he allowed himself to relax. Of course.

"I didn't know the 'Body Worlds' exhibit was here," he said, looking with interest at the picture at the entrance of what appeared to be – and probably was, considering the exhibit – a giraffe with its skin taken off.

Sherlock, pulling the tickets from his coat with a dramatic swirl, raised an eyebrow at him that spoke volumes of his disapproval and suggested John had been confronted with images of the exhibit for months and simply hadn't noticed. Maybe he had. "I am sure its _artistic_ qualities are debatable, but it is of interest in terms of my scientific enquiry and I thought possibly to you as a doctor. Is it appropriate?"

His voice spoke with indifferent arrogance, but John couldn't help but notice the way his eyes continued their penetrating gaze as though attempting to cut through his very skin and read the answer on his soul. John Watson grinned. Appropriate? He tried to reconcile the ideas of a date and the many hours they were sure to spend playing 'Guess What Killed the Corpse'. But then again, it _was _Sherlock.

"It's just fine," he said, taking Sherlock's hand and lacing their fingers together.

Sherlock gave him one of those blinding smiles that made it all worth it, and then dragged him through the doors, for all the world like a child desperate to show him a new toy. He knew they were garnering stares, what with Sherlock practically running from exhibit to exhibit and getting in far too close to the corpses, or talking in a very loud voice about the histories of the dead – "This one had a history of hard drug use. Can't you see it in the inner elbow?" – and him standing there grinning like a lunatic, but he couldn't help but think this was more than fine.

This was perfect.


End file.
